


To I Swear, I Say

by serenadinsirens



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Prompt Fill, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 20:38:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1616294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenadinsirens/pseuds/serenadinsirens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael was SUPPOSED to be studying for his AP Euro exam on Tuesday, but here he was, getting drunk at a party. And what better place to crash than Gavin's house?</p><p>Unless it's not Gavin's house. But that inhabitant is pretty attractive, so it's not that bad, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	To I Swear, I Say

**Author's Note:**

> the prompt was: "i really want an “i accidentally broke into your house/apartment because my friend lives next door to you and i was in the area, drunk, and i thought i was climbing into the right window and falling asleep on the right couch (and i did wonder when my friend got two cats but i didn’t question it) so now i’m hungover and shirtless in your living room so um hi howya doin” au"
> 
> and this was my best doing to fulfill it. I decided to help out to the 'write more raychael fics' fund (started here and now. write more raychael fics). 
> 
> this will probably only be 2 to 3 chapters, so i don't inted on making it very long!

With the sound of wailing sirens and the red and blue lights flickering across 2 AM streets, where the shadows dip and bathe the pavement a deep, fading cobalt, there resonates the distinctive sound of the rubber bottoms of Chuck Taylor's, attached to more than slightly intoxicated feet, trying (and stumbling) their way to safety. Cop cars parade down the street and in their wake is Michael Jones, 18 years old, drunk and high and scared shitless that the cops were going to tell his mom that he'd been shotgunning beer at a party with his best friend, Gavin Free- who just so happened to be running right behind him, instead of having a study session for his big AP Euro exam coming up on Tuesday.

"BLOODY LEG IT!!" he faintly heard from behind him and really, Michael didn't need to be told twice- or once, for that matter. Tripping slightly, Michael managed to make his way to the front lawn of what he presumed to be Gavin's neighbor's house, and then to the large wooden fence that divided his friend's yard from this one.

Michael was too intoxicated to deal with this shit, he decided as he could barely get his foot on the ledge of the fence and his leg over the spiked edge and holy _shit_ , he was going to have splinters in his fingers from the way he grasped the top and tried with all of his marijuana infested might to just get himself _over the fucking fence_.

Which, of course, resulted in a magnificent face plant.

Fuck the entire world and all of its inhabitants.

"C'mon, asshole!!" he heard the dumb fucking annoying British accent come from next to him, but his shoulder ached too much and there was dirt in his mouth and the ground underneath him was spinning so comfortably around his head that Michael couldn't bring himself to reply. " _Christ_ , I don't have time to deal with this. I'm bloody leaving you, see you at the house, _whenever_."

And when the legs moved to pick up in a sprint again, Michael decided that he really did not want to be left in this position. Well, not alone, at least.

"Gav, wait...!" he coughed, spitting the disgusting earthy substance out from between his teeth, his sore, stinging hands grasping the lush grass next to him in an attempt to pull himself up. Michael groaned, the sky tilting left of his profile as he tried to steady himself, but booze and weed didn't help him in this sense.

The lights of the cop cars swam in from the left of his vision and danced across his eyelids to the heartbeat in his eardrums. The foul burn of pot in his lungs had him wheezing as he tried to get to the side of Gavin's house where he knew there was a window he could climb through and end up in his friend's game room, where there was a soft and welcoming couch waiting for him to crash on.

And, admittedly, Michael was a bit confused when he got to the window and saw it was _open_ (meaning, he didn't have to pry his fingers through the small crack and unlatch it from the inside). It was convenient, yeah, but Gavin's AC was on; it was May in Austin, Texas, and hot outside, why would Gavin leave the window open while the air conditioner was running?

Michael was going to think much about it, he decided as he pulled the window open, dropped to his stomach, and dragged himself in to the open room. His foot got caught on the ledge, and with Michael grunting softly to himself, he twisted his body as best as he could to try and undo it and just get into the _fucking house_.

But then he ended up just falling through the window entirely.

Why would he expect anything different?

Something boney and uncomfortable caught his hip, but something plush and soft caught his shoulder, and his head was left dangling in mid air, but Michael was not going to complain at all. In fact, he took great pride in his magnificent escape and, admittedly, less-than spectacular entrance.

" _What in the ever loving fuck?!_ " Oh, someone switched on a light and Michael immediately shut his eyes to preserve them from the flood of light through the room. But then there was a painful pressure to his gut and suddenly his head was meeting the ground and his legs and feet were flying backwards to meet it.

"Wha...?" was the only thing close to a sentence he could say- and, let it be known, it wasn't even quite a sentence itself- with his head spinning and eyes squinted to try their best to make out a figure standing before him. He took notice of the thin stature, yes, and possibly the most incredible pair of Pokemon boxers he'd ever laid eyes on, but what took more notice, though, was the Guitar Hero remote held high above the figure's head like a baseball bat.

"Gavvers...?" Michael slurred out, rubbing his eyes to clear his vision. "Whaddaya got the guitar for? We... we gotta study for Euro..."

"What the fuck are you doing in my house?" the person's voice was deeper for such a small body, but still sounding fairly young. "I swear, I don't have anything valuable on me. I don't have money or anything like that if that's what you're looking for."

"Gaavvvin, ya never have any money," was all Michael could manage, wondering what Gavin was even doing so high strung with the lights on and trying to play Guitar Hero this late at night.

Dumb, stupid, idiot Gavin.

"I'm not _Gavin_. I'm his neighbor. Gavin lives across the street," the person explained, stepping out of Michael's face and setting the guitar down in the corner of the room. A room, which, for some reason, refused to stop swaying back and forth. Michael's blurry eyesight could make out someone who was most certainly not Gavin, but a boy probably no older than he was, no taller than he was, and had quite possibly the least threatening small stature Michael had ever seen in his entire life. He tried to bite back a giggle at the dark hair that was sticking out in so many places, but the more sober boy seemed less amused.

"Were you at the party down the street? I heard the sirens, so I would assume that it was busted." Michael didn't say anything in response, just blinking slowly and languidly up at the other person with a stupid grin on his face. The other frowned. "Shit, man, how much did you have to drink?"

Michael didn't really understand the question, or, honestly, any of the words that were falling out of his mouth. All he saw was a pair of lips opening and sounds coming out too slowly, and too soothing and Michael blinked once more to himself, resorting only to respond with what he could make out of the situation.

"You're not Gavin," he stated, dumbly.

The smaller boy groaned, looking somehow only mildly irritated. "No, I'm not fucking Gavin!" he ground out.

At that, the much more intoxicated boy giggled. "Yeah, but _I am_." And now he was thinking about fucking Gavin. Not that it was anything serious, of course, but sometimes study sessions turned to make out sessions and make out sessions turned to... well, let's just say that Michael's lost count of the amount of times where he's gone over to the Free household and ended up with a dick in his mouth.

The sober boy looked more than slightly startled at that notion. "Okay, well, that's definitely something that I didn't need to hear," he mumbled and as the pink melted into his cheeks from his ears, Michael really fully noticed just how attractive this person was. The boy with the high cheekbones that got rosier with each flirt, the dark, young eyes that looked everywhere but at him and his hair that stuck up in ever possible direction after being mussed with sleep.

"You're very pretty," Michael slurred out, eyes lighting with glee when the boy flushed red again and finally looked at Michael with an unreadable expression on his face. The sober male scratched the stubble under his chin awkwardly.

"I thought you were fucking Gavin," he quietly accused, chocolate eyes flickering to the ceiling once again.

"Everyone's fucking Gavin." That was also not far from the truth. Michael and Gavin had made a bet back when they were sixteen years old to see who could get laid the most- since, obviously, getting laid was all sixteen year old boys thought about. But somehow, in some fucked up sort of sneak of chance, getting laid by basically any creature in existence happened to be the one thing that Gavin could actually do right and the British boy ended up with a lot of permanent numbers in his phone to use at his leisure.

"I'm not."

"Yes, we've been over this," Michael almost made an attempt to push himself up off the ground, but the light swimming behind the other boy's head moved up and down the walls, and a warn, comfortable buzz set low down Michael's spine. "What's your name, _boy-who-refuses-to-look-at-anyone-directly_?" he managed to get out, stumbling slightly.

"I'm Ray," he answered slowly, eyeing Michael with uncertainty, though the drunk boy was fairly sure that it was an act of defiance in response to his new found and fairly long nickname. Ray sat himself on his own bed. "And what about you, _boy-who-attacks-people-in-their-sleep_?"

" _I_ ," Michael started, grinning stupidly to himself, "am also Ray." And Ray almost seemed to believe him at first, but then Michael started giggling because holy shit, his name's not Ray, obviously, and the real Ray scowled, standing up from his bed and going to the door in the corner of the room.

"Don't know why I even fucking bother with drunk people," Ray grumbled to himself, opening the door and peering back at Michael. "I'm going to go get you some shit that should help you not feel like utter cow piss in the morning. Just... stay where you are and don't touch anything." And as Ray left the room, Michael almost missed the faint mumble of, 'for the love of God, don't touch anything'.

And Michael was left, splayed across the hardwood floor of Ray's room, alone and to his own devices. His eyes wandered to the lamp on Ray's bed stand, one where the shade had long been abandoned ad just left a lone incandescent bulb. The light flickered slightly and Michael was entranced, a warm feeling in the back of his throat and a low thrumming in his fingertips, his vision swimming.

The ground swayed beneath him and Michael hummed to himself, content at the rocking motion of the surface. His eyes slipped closed at the comfortable feeling, his body heavy, but his head resting on the clouds and up to the sun, a warm feeling spreading across his cheeks.

Michael very much liked Ray's hardwood floor.

The door opened. "Alright, I got you some water and a vomit bucket," Ray broke Michael's moment of bliss, setting down a cracked orange bucket next to his head and handing him a bottle of water. "I don't want you puking all over my floor," he explained to Michael's amused expression.

"What, am I staying here?" Michael questioned, smiling as Ray flushed slightly. The boy seemed to do that fairly often. Michael found it adorable.

"My dad's staying late at the bar, so he probably won't be home 'til noon-ish tomorrow at the earliest," Ray explained, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "You're more than a mild inconvenience, I'll admit, but I'm actually not that awful enough of a person to force you to walk home drunk."

Michael, frankly, was flattered by the gesture, but did not say it out loud as he sobered slowly and slightly. "Your dad works at a bar?" he inquired, taking a long sip of the water bottle and eyeing Ray curiously.

"Yes." That was the only response that Michael got from him and he nodded to himself more than anything else, slowly screwing the lid back onto the water bottle. There was something about the way Ray answered that mad Michael press on. He was sobering, yes, but sober or not, Michael rarely had a filter on over his mouth.

"Is your dad staying late because of work?"

At that, Ray did not say anything at all this time, instead letting out an exasperated breath and sitting, once again, down on his bed. That was enough of a response for Michael, and he decided not to say anything in return. He did not comment on the way that Ray went silent too easily or the way that Ray knew too well how to deal with intoxicated people and how Ray had far too much patience in this situation for this being his first time, hell, even his _fifth_ time.

But Ray was turning off the light and Michael definitely decided it was best not to say anything.

"Just go to sleep," he heard come from on top of the bed before an onslaught of pillows and a blanket tumbled down over his head. Michael smiled genuinely, hugging the soft objects to his body, a warm feeling in his chest.

"Thanks, Raybles," he mumbled, snuggling deep into the comfort of the blankets, his head all of a sudden dropping from the sun to the ground and feeling like it was filled with lead. Michael almost missed the soft chuckle from on top of the bed, but it was there and really, he was sobering and his hearing wasn't that awful, and the sound was so melodious that the tone alone could be enough to sway him to sleep.

And that was probably what did it, as his eyes slipped shut.


End file.
